Every one may take advantage of this pathological philosophical observation, and keep secret my advice to prevent too much competition. . . .
A curse on it, that indignation and grief are so often clothed in the rags of satire! A curse on it, that a tear, to be understood, must be accompanied with a sneer!
Or is it the fault of my inexperience, that I seek in vain for words to name the depth of the wound that cankers in our Indian Government, without borrowing the style of Figaro or Punch? Style, . . . Yes! There are documents before me, in which there is style; style that showed that there was a man in the neighbourhood; a man, to whom it would have been worth the trouble to give a helping hand! And of what use was this style to poor Havelaar? He did not translate his tears into grins, he did not scoff, he did not endeavour to touch by a medley of colours or insipid farces; . . . . of what use was it to him?
If I could write like him, I should write otherwise than he.
Style? . . . Did you hear how he spoke to the chiefs? And of what use was it to him?
If I could speak like him, I should speak otherwise than he.
Away with conscientious language, away with considerateness, straightforwardness, plainness, simplicity, feeling; away with all that puts you in remembrance of Horace’s
